


Iniquity

by AgentCoop



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Ash Lynx Lives, Come Shot, Daddy Kink, Fantasizing, Guilt, Guilty Pleasures, M/M, Masturbation, Minor Ash Lynx, Sexual Fantasy, and is feeling quite dramatic about his life, max has a lot of issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-04-22
Packaged: 2020-01-24 02:39:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18562255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AgentCoop/pseuds/AgentCoop
Summary: Ash on his knees.Ash grinning up at him, “Daddy,” falling from his lips.Ash nosing at his crotch, tasting him, his tongue so soft against the flesh of his thighs…***********************************************************************************************Basically Max fantasizing about Ash and jerking off. That's it. That's the fic ;)





	Iniquity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Angelic_Noir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angelic_Noir/gifts).



> Inspired by a prompt from Angelic_Noir and written for Banana Fish RarePair Week Day #1: Encounters

The apartment was dim now, silent and reflective in the still of the night.

Max loved this. He loved when the chaos of the day clattered down around them and the noise faded to nothing but a dull buzz of appliances humming. He scooped up the various notebooks and journals that lay scattered about his desk and tried to neatly stack them in one corner. A three-ring-binder came toppling down, landing on the carpeted floor with a loud _thwack_ before falling open to a spreadsheet of names and dates.

Birth dates. 

Death dates.

Names of bodies whose passing could be tied to Banana Fish.

No matter how many news articles ran, or how many press conferences Max attended, the buzz about the infamous take down of the mafia controlled government never seemed to die down, and Max never seemed to be able to fully distance himself from the damn case.

He supposed it was the same for Ash. The two of them were the faces of the entire case and as such, had relinquished any last vestiges of privacy to the American people. They both had apartments in the same building now, and actual security guards on rotation at the front entrance. 

Couldn’t be too careful with the suspected reach of the mafia, Max supposed. 

Still, despite living almost on top of each other, Max gave Ash a wide berth. 

They passed in the hallway every once and awhile, and there would be a quick hand wave, a softening around the eyes, a smile. Occasionally Ash came over for dinner and Max would attempt to cook a meal, (frequently failing miserably), and they would sit at the table exchanging banter, stories, memories. More frequently, Max would walk down the hall to Ash’s apartment. Ash actually knew how to cook and prided himself over his ability not to burn a pound of pasta or set fire to the stove. Here, they would drink whiskey—golden tumblers filled further than was practical—and then they would reminisce. Sometimes they spoke of Eiji, and Ash’s voice would grow tight and impossibly distant. Sometimes they spoke of Griffin and Max would clutch at the collar of his shirt, certain the ringing in his ears was a result of too much alcohol.

Once, they had finished the bottle and Ash leaned in and Max tasted the liquor on his lips and suddenly they were tumbling, free-falling, pressed against something forbidden.

This only happened once. 

This was never spoken of again.

Still, even as Max now scooped up the binder carefully from the floor and closed it, watching the name Griffin Callenreese be buried again, he wondered which of them felt more guilt for the night in question. Wondered if Ash burned with uncertainty. Wondered if Ash lay awake at nights, full of something terrifying, full of a painful curiosity.

Max did.

He pressed the heels of his hands into his sandy eyes, willing sleep. Instead, that familiar tension had returned, that droning fuzz of adrenaline coursing through his veins.

“Fuck,” he muttered. 

The drapes at the window shuddered in response as the midnight breeze blew in. It carried with it the smell of a city—gasoline and sweat and dirt and a heaviness that belied the density of too many humans crammed into one space. There was also something sweet there that slipped in, fingered tendrils brushing against his nose.

Ocean.

He closed his eyes and breathed in the smell of it, the salt, the freshness, and as he exhaled all he could see were strands of blond, all he could taste was something metallic, like the copper of a bullet, all he could feel was a shivering energy.

He was hard.

Max groaned, and turned towards the wall, bracing himself with a raised forearm. His right hand fumbled at the button of his jeans, and then he was free of them, letting the denim pool roughly at his feet. 

_Ash on his knees._

_Ash grinning up at him, “Daddy,” falling from his lips._

_Ash nosing at his crotch, tasting him, his tongue so soft against the flesh of his thighs…_

Another slip of a moan fell from his lips and he let his fingers trail lower, down below his navel, under the waistband of his briefs. Ash had grown in the last two years. He’d always been beautiful, but now that beauty held sharp lines and taut angles. It wasn’t the soft beauty of a child, rather it was something dangerous, something impossibly sharp, something with jagged edges that could cut flesh. 

He grasped his cock in his hand, and stroked from the base to the tip, letting his fingers dip into the beads of pre-come and smear it further. 

Ash smelled of the musty New York earth, deep and aged, and full of mystery. His hair fell against his neck and Max imagined the taste of the nape of his neck, imagined licking the whispers of salty sweat from his collarbone. He pictured Ash from the night that they didn’t speak of. They pressed against each other then, and there was a desperation, a need for completion, a desire for safe release.

“Oh my God,” Max whispered, his hand stroking faster now. He pressed his forehead against the crease of his elbow and squeezed his eyes closed. “Oh my God.” He was achingly hard already. “Ash,” he let slip from moist lips. “Ash, Ash, Ash.” 

Each utterance of this name was like a jolt of electricity. His cock jumped in his hand and he suddenly wanted nothing more in the world then for Ash to swallow him whole, to watch as his throat bobbed with the need to swallow, with the need for air. To watch as his eyes closed and as strands of blond hair fell across his face and listen to the small moans of pleasure that he made while he sucked.

“Fuck,” Max moaned. “Yes. Yes, you can take it all. You can swallow it.”

His voice was pitched low, and another full body shudder took him at the filthiness of his words. “You can take it,” he repeated.

He was so insanely close he was dizzy with it. There was a wet sound as his hand worked faster and faster and still he wanted more friction, he wanted Ash’s mouth, he wanted Ash’s legs, he wanted to touch that smooth skin, press against it, press into it, listen to the moaning cries that Ash would make as he came apart.

“Ohhh my…ohh my God…I’m gonna cum…I’m gonna—”

He gasped with the rolling wave of his orgasm, striping the wall with ribbons of cum. His entire body was shaking, held rigid and stiff with need, and still he was cumming, smaller spurts coating his hand and thighs.

“Oh my God,” he repeated. His head was muzzy with pleasure but still, a tangle of guilt began it’s clawing way up his chest and to his throat. It want release now, it screamed for dominance. “Oh shit,” Max said, the mess on the wall reflective in the moonlight streaming in from the window. “I…” he started, then paused, unsure. There was no one else here, yet he felt a need for justification. Ash wasn’t Griffin. Ash could never be Griffin, could never replace Griffin, should never replace Griffin and yet…

As he considered further he knew that Griffin wasn’t what he wanted. That Griffin was gone. That Griffin was a cavernous hole in his heart but that there was someone else that brought him back from the brink of despair. Max buried his head in his hands, the smell of himself strong and bitter in his nose, disgust thick in his throat. He could taste a sludgy uncertainty, and suddenly, he drew back and punched the wall with all of his strength.

His knuckles burned; the plaster was cracked and melancholic. 

Max heaved a shuddering sigh, then quietly stripped off his wet briefs and walked on silent pads to the bathroom where he started a hot shower. The steam rolled up around him, softening his features in the mirror. 

“Ash,” he whispered.

It was swallowed by the roar of water.


End file.
